


The Other Side of Fear

by bluestrawberryiii



Series: The Other Side of Fear [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Court of Owls, Fear gas, Gen, and the house spontaneously combusts, basically the kids are in charge of the house right, because the house is a metaphor for gotham & thats what gotham does, but since this is stuff dealing with fear gas just be ready for spooky imagery idk, eventually i think, i dunno ill add tags as they come up, oh also bruce is conveniently off-world for a jla thing or w/e until further notice, typical fear gas stuff i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-26 17:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7582918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestrawberryiii/pseuds/bluestrawberryiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Damian gets hit with a new strain of fear gas, the bat family teams up to find who is responsible and shut them down before they can continue their plans.</p><p>(This is gonna be written kinda like those big cross-over comics, except with more focus on out-of-costume stuff too because this is fanfiction dammit. I can do what I want and DC can't heckin stop me.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if youre reading this after a wisp of fear, thank you all so much for encouraging me to write more! it was so awesome to hear your feedback and i love all of you
> 
> if youre picking this up without wisp, no worries! you dont really need to read it (though i would appreciate you forever if you did); basically all you need to know is theres fear gas in gotham, dami got hit with it but hes fine now, and tim got a bruised rib and hes not quite fine yet. thats it thats all go forth and read

Dick stooped down to inspect the shattered glass on the sewer’s floor, night vision painting everything in shades of green. He tapped on his comm.

“Oracle. Are you seeing anything here that I’m not?”

A small green oval appeared, blinking in the top left of his vision, indicating that Barbara was now watching his video feed in real time. “Nope.” Her voice had only a slight crackle to it, which was pretty good, considering he was a mile underground. “Everything looks clean to me, and my scanners aren’t picking up anything helpful.” She paused. “Did you check the glass for residue?”

He had, but he swiped a gloved finger along the shards of glass just the same. “Still nothing. All the gas dissipated last night, I guess. No condensation or anything.”

“Why didn’t you get a sample from one of the other capsules?”

“Ah. Well…” Dick straightened up and stretched. “Once Robin got hit, I was a bit distracted. Red Robin had him covered, but you know how it is. I got sloppy, and a couple got away with the shipment while I was dealing with the rest.”

Barbara’s voice was careful and kind. “We all make mistakes.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dick grabbed the crushed glass and put it in a plastic bag. “And I don’t regret that I prioritized Robin. But now there’s a crateful of fear gas somewhere in Gotham that we need to track down.”

“Well,” Barbara said, typing something into her computer. “I’m working on where they might be, but in the meantime, are you up for a trip back to Blüdhaven?”

Dick furrowed his brow. “You found something?”

“Well, kind of. And not me. Red Robin’s been -”

“Red Robin?”

A pause. “Whoops.”

He let out an exasperated sigh and started heading out of the sewers. “That little workaholic’s supposed to be resting, dammit.”

* * *

 

The light from the Batcave’s computer was straining Tim’s eyes, even though it was only midnight. He grabbed his thermos and took a sip of his concoction: a mix of Bruce’s regular coffee and the last of Steph’s leftover Starbucks espresso from the fridge (a bit sugary for his liking but he was desperate). His bruised rib was taking more out of him than he would have liked, but there was only so much bedrest he could take before he started to go crazy.

So, instead, he had snuck down to the Batcave to do some research on the case. He didn’t have much to work with; Dick hadn’t told them more than what was necessary on the night of the incident, and he certainly wasn’t going to tell Tim anything now that he was supposed to be in bed for a week. It was ironic, how Dick held everyone steadfast to Alfred’s orders until _he_ was the one on the mend.

Tim’s eyes started to droop again, so he took another sip from the thermos. It wasn't doing as much as he hoped it would, so he pulled one of his emergency Red Bulls out from under the desk to give the coffee a little more kick.

Barbara's voice came through the speakers. “What you got so far?”

“Not enough.” He took another sip and added a little more Red Bull. “You're in contact with Nightwing, right? Could you get some more details from his case?”

“Sure thing. By the way,” she asked, the clacking of her keyboard distantly audible over her mic. “How's your rib? I heard Penny One put you on bed rest for a week.”

The question beneath the words was obvious: ‘Are you supposed to be doing this right now?’

“Yeah,” Tim said. “But he said I was okay to do stuff in the Cave.” Alfred had said no such thing, but Tim thought it was a bit ridiculous to confine him to his room for a week over a bone that wasn't even broken.

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly not buying it. “Well, hold on a sec. I'll get you your info.”

“Thanks Oracle.”

She clicked off the channel, leaving Tim in silence once more. The stillness, the whooshing of the wind in the empty cave, even the intermittent screech from the bats was lulling him to sleep. He needed to call someone else.

Damian was out on patrol (fear gas apparently wasn't a strong enough reason to keep _him_ on house arrest, Tim thought bitterly) but he might turn Tim in to Alfred or Dick.

Steph was probably - hopefully - asleep. Tim knew she had a big test the next day, and he wasn't going to bother her.

That left Jason. He was always up late, and was least likely to turn Tim in. He dialed up the number.

Jason answered within seconds. “Hey, how's it feel getting your shit kicked by a twelve year old? Again.”

“So you heard.”

“ ‘course I heard! What do you think I am, some hermit?” His voice was accompanied by the muffled blasts of gunshots.

“Kind of, actually, yeah. Who's getting shot?”

“Your pride, apparently. But also these traffickers.”

“Another ring?” He got some text popping up on the screen from Barbara: information she'd gotten from Dick. This was good. Multitasking would keep him awake. “That's the third this month.”

“Yeah man it's weird. They've been popping up all over recently. I - hold on.” Rattling filled up the speakers as Jason’s helmet jostled. Another _bang bang_ , a cry of pain, and a thud. “Sorry about that. Anyways, yeah, they're everywhere now. Snatching up all ages and genders too - I guess the sickos in this town are getting less picky nowadays.”

“Great,” Tim said, plugging in the address Babs had gotten for him first. He got a run-down old warehouse in Blüdhaven. “That's just what Gotham needs right now.”

“Right? Apparently, we have bigger problems. Like a shipment of fear gas, perhaps?”

Tim paused in his typing. “How the hell do you _know_ all this?” It wasn't like he wanted Jason in the dark, but he also couldn't think of anyone who'd had the time to tell him.

“I have my ways,” Jason replied. Tim could almost see the smug wink. “Hold on, I'm getting the people out. Those greasebags were keeping them in crates.”

“Alright,” Tim replied, entering in more of the information Babs was feeding him. It looked like the operation was homegrown in Blüdhaven. There were no connections to sponsors that he could see, but if his estimates were correct, they would need a steady (and large) stream of income to keep an operation this size going.

He dug a bit deeper, but these people were thorough: no big corporate connections, no money trail, nothing. Just a warehouse in Blüdhaven, with apparently enough equipment and money to make mass shipments of fear gas. He took a swig of his coffee-Bull hybrid and opened up a text to Babs:

_Is there any way to get inside the building? I wanna see if they still have equipment there._

She responded, _I'll see if Dick’s up for the trip._

Tim nodded to himself and took another gulp of coffee. It was getting cold. Cold enough that he could actually taste the Red Bull mingling with the coffee. It was disgusting.

The speakers picked up again. “You still there?”

“Yeah,” Tim said, though he could feel himself slipping mentally. “How'd it go?”

“God, you sound awful,” Jason said, ignoring Tim’s question entirely. “Are you sure you shouldn't be sleeping?”

Did he really sound that bad? He threw his hands up into the air. “Not you too. I'm fine! I have pain killers _and_ coffee with me.”

“Jesus dude, you gotta stop running on fumes and caffeine. It is _not_ healthy.”

Tim scoffed. “I don't need someone living on Chinese takeout to lecture me on my health.” He got another message from Babs. It said _The cat’s out of the bag_. Tim squinted at the too-bright screen, trying to parse its meaning and coming up with nothing.

“The difference here,” Jason continued. “Is that I still get my eight hours of beauty sleep. That's probably why you still can't get that date with Steph, you know -”

“Hey!”

“- is that you don't get your beauty sleep.”

One of the many generators for the cave started up from behind Tim, purring like a motorcycle. “Hey, okay, I _do_ sleep.” The buzz was getting louder by the second, like it was getting closer. “I just don't need _as much_ sleep.”

Jason let out a soft snort. “Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, hot shot.”

The sound stopped, which Tim appreciated. It was making it hard to concentrate. He took another swig of coffee. “It's true! I -”

“TIM!” The voice came from behind.

Tim turned around, nearly dropping his thermos. “Dick!?”

From the speakers, Jason chuckled. “Oooh, busted.”

Dick walked up to where Tim was sitting, illuminated by the dazzling supercomputer’s screens. “You're supposed to be resting.”

“ _You're_ supposed to be in Blüdhaven,” Tim retorted. Barbara's text was starting to make sense now. “And anyways, you don't have to micromanage me. I can take care of myself.”

Dick stared him down, then glanced at the thermos in his hands, and the empty Red Bull can to the side. “Apparently I do. Come on.” He reached over and turned off the computer’s monitors, plunging the Cave into total darkness, save for the elevator’s lights. “You're going to bed, and you're gonna stay there until Alfred says you can leave.”

“Ugh, Dick, really, I'm… Whoa.” He stood up, and the world spun. His head swam and his side ached to the point that it hurt to breathe. He lurched forward and grabbed on to the closest thing for support, which happened to be Dick’s elbow.

For a moment, Dick’s stern act dropped. “What's wrong?” he asked, a note of concern rising in his voice.

Tim shook his head. “Just the change in position I guess. I'm fine.”

His eyes were still covered by the Nightwing mask, but even then Tim could see his worry. “Alright, yeah, you're going to bed.” He grabbed Tim's shoulder, more out of support than sternness, and led him towards the elevator. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Like…” Tim furrowed his brow. It was getting harder to think, now that everything was dark and he had nothing to distract him. “Probably...noon?”

Dick looked down at him sharply. “Noon!? That's thirteen hours ago!”

When he put it that way, it did sound kind of bad. Tim stepped over the elevator threshold and they shot up to the ground floor. Dick busied himself with pulling off his costume and putting on the spare clothes he kept.

“I'm getting you up to your room, and then I'm making you eat a sandwich,” he said, tugging on a shirt, which turned out to be backwards. “You need to take care of yourself, at least when you're injured.”

Tim waved his hand dismissively, though he could feel his movements getting more sluggish by the second. “I'm always injured _somewhere_ , Dick. It's kind of part of the job description.”

“You know what I mean.” They stopped. Dick pushed the door open and stepped into the living room, Tim half-stumbling behind.

They got up the stairs together with a bit of difficulty - Tim's side kept giving him trouble, and he had to stop every ten steps to catch his breath - but eventually they got to his room.

It was just the way he'd left it: light on, window open, sheets rumpled and twisted, and a half-finished copy of _Dragonlance_ lying on the pillow.

“You lie down,” Dick instructed, leading him over to the bed and straightening out the sheets. “I'll be back up with some food in a minute.”

Tim nodded and tried to push out a short uh-huh, but all he got was a soft “Mhmm…”

Dick turned the light off and closed the door.

In the darkness, the only sounds were the soft rustling of the curtains and the crickets outside. Tim closed his eyes, listening to the chirping. Underneath his eyelids, fireflies danced around his field of view, colorless lights in a sea of black. The caffeine really hadn't done him much good, Tim thought, as he felt himself slipping away. Maybe he had built up an immunity.

* * *

 

By the time Dick got back to the room, Tim was fast asleep. He had expected as much.

He left the ham sandwich on Tim’s bedstand in a plastic bag, an ice pack nearby to keep it cool. He leaned over to grab the old book lying next to Tim’s head and put that on the bedstand too.

“Good night, Tim,” he said, closing the door on his way out.

It was time to go back to Blüdhaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tune in next chapter for: plot occurring hell yeha B)


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a quiet night for Damian. He’d run into Jason earlier and helped him bust an armed robbery, but other than that, nothing much had happened. It was just by chance that, on his way back to the Manor, he saw Dick’s motorcycle tear out into the street, on its way to the city limit. Damian opened up his comm.

“Nightwing. Why on Earth are you leaving Gotham at -” He glanced to a nearby clock tower. “- nearly two in the morning.”

“Robin! I just got a lead from Oracle and Red, so I’m checking it out.”

“Well slow down. I’m coming too.” He hopped down from his perch - one of the old district’s many brick chimneys - and started running in the direction that he had seen Dick disappear.

“Are you sure?” Dick asked, though Damian could hear that he was already slowing the bike down. “Shouldn’t you be heading home soon?”

“Nah. I need something to do anyways.” He didn’t mention that, even just closing his eyes, he was seeing after images of his fear-gas hallucination from the night before. He didn’t want to find out what would happen when he slept, so any distraction was a welcome one. “I’ll meet you at the diner on Nightingale.”

“The one with the free french fries?”

“Of course.” Damian could see it a couple blocks down. If he had guessed his distances right, he and Dick should arrive at the diner around the same time. “By the way, you mentioned Red? I didn’t know Red Hood was on the case.”

“What? Oh, no. Red Robin.”

Damian paused so he could gauge a particularly far jump. “Isn’t he supposed to be resting?” he asked, thudding onto the shingled roof on the other side of the alley and continuing to run. Only two more blocks to go.

“Well, he is now.” Dick sounded slightly miffed. “I made sure of that.”

“Oh my god.” Damian jumped another street and swung down onto the sidewalk across from the diner. It was lit with cheery vintage signs, just like it was all other hours of the day. “I can’t believe you had to put him to bed like a petulant child.”

“Don’t pretend I haven’t had to do the same with you, Robin.”

“Sure. But that won’t stop me from using this against him.” From inside the diner, the owner spotted him. She waved, and he waved back. They had saved her from the Joker a couple years back, and she had been giving them free sides ever since. A sign of gratitude, Damian supposed.

A sigh. “Just please wait until he recovers before you start needling him.”

“No promises.” The owner held up a basket of fries and looked inquisitively out at him. He held up a hand and shook his head _no_. She smiled and nodded her understanding, before going back to serving the two customers at the bar. “How far out are you?”

“At the turn. Get ready.”

Damian heard the soft hum of Dick’s motorcycle as it approached the bend, getting louder by the second. Some of the diner’s patrons turned to look as Dick came tearing down the street before screeching to a halt in front of Damian. A couple people pulled out their phones and snapped pictures.

Dick tossed Damian the spare helmet he kept stored away. “Ready to go?”

He hopped onto the back of the bike and pulled on the helmet. “Of course.”

* * *

 

They arrived on the scene a little before three in the morning. There hadn’t been a working streetlight for the past five blocks, and smog coated the sky, diffusing moonbeams into soft coppery-red light.

“What a charming city,” Damian noted, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“It’s a lot better in the more populated areas.”

“Is it really, though.”

“Well. A bit.” Dick had to admit that there wasn’t all that many redeeming things about Blüdhaven. Sure, he’d met some amazing people there, but the city itself was - to put it lightly - a hellhole.

He pulled onto the curb and set out the kickstand. They probably wouldn’t need to make a quick getaway, but just in case, Dick didn’t want to deal with pushing his bike upright before leaving.

Damian had already clicked on his night vision, and Dick followed suit, gazing out at the familiar landscape: the chain link fence, locked tight at the single entrance and topped with barbed wire; the dead, yellowing grass and dirt patches leading up to the warehouse; and the building itself, rickety and falling apart, with boarded up windows all the way around.

“It's looking like nobody's home,” Dick said, scanning the area. The lights weren't on like they always were, and back when he was staking the place out, there had always been at least a couple guards pacing along the shadows. Now the whole block was empty and dark.

Damian, never one to waste time, started forward. “Let's go in then.”

He rushed forward, swinging over the fence in such a way that he managed to avoid the barbed wire looped around the top.

“Damian, wait!” Dick hissed. He had no idea what was inside. And while he knew Damian could handle himself, Dick still felt uneasy letting him run ahead alone so soon after the night in the sewer. He ran after him, though he flipped over the wire a bit more cautiously than Damian had. By the time he reached the building, Damian had already entered it, leaving the door slightly ajar, its lock broken on the ground.

He eased it open, cringing at how the hinges screeched. “D?”

No answer.

He tried the comm. “Robin?”

“You should get over here,” Damian responded.

Dick breathed a sigh of relief that morphed into a yawn. It had been two days since he’d last slept, and he was beginning to feel it. “Where are you?”

“The back half of the warehouse. The part that looks like an upscale meth lab.”

Dick headed forward, passing crate upon crate until the scenery changed into white walls framing a maze of winding tables and machinery. Off in one corner, there were stacks upon rows of those small glass cylinders from the night before. Most were empty, but there were sections here and there that had green gas trapped inside the containers. It looked like something out of a dream. A weird, particularly orderly dream.

“They’re definitely making fear gas. But this doesn’t look like Crane’s tech…” Dick walked up to the tables, looking at the beakers with strange liquids in them, and the mixers quietly humming along. “It’s too small-scale. He usually does mass batches.”

Damian approached the far wall, where a line of large metal tanks stood like chrome sentinels. He knocked on one of them, eliciting a dull hollow sound. “I don’t think Crane has this kind of budget, either. Anyways, why would he outsource to Blüdhaven? And how? He’s in Arkham right now.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Dick muttered, almost to himself. He shook his head. “But if it’s not Crane, then how did these people get the formula?”

“I don’t think they did.” Damian was still inspecting the tanks, looking over the tubes running out of the bottoms. “Each of these looks like it’s its own batch; I think they’re trying to reverse engineer the formula.”

That would certainly explain why everything was in tiny beakers and mixers instead of vats of chemicals; they were still experimenting. “But why fear gas? And who?”

Damian shrugged. “Not sure.” He made his way over to the stacks of cylinders and picked out a few that were full, slipping them into his belt. “But I bet we’ll find something if we take a closer look at these.” He walked towards the exit. “Come on.”

Dick furrowed his brow. “Shouldn’t we keep looking?”

“We could, but I think we have enough for now. Plus…” He looked Dick over with that mixture of concern and disdain that only Damian could pull off. “You look awful. And you’ll be more trouble than help if you pass out.”

Dick followed behind him, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Says the kid that’s up way past his bedtime.”

“I don’t _have_ a bedtime.”

“I’ve stayed up for much longer than this and been fine.”

“ _Fine_ is relative.” Damian opened the door and they both stepped out into the muggy twilight. Sunlight was just starting to fight its way through Blüdhaven’s rusted smog. “Sleep loss impairs your judgement and reflexes. Both things you need.”

Dick groaned. “Ugh. You sound like Alfred.”

They reached the motorcycle and Dick tossed Damian his helmet.

“You know,” Damian said, his voice now muffled under the visor. “If you’re too tired, I could always drive.”

Dick threw a saccharine smile Damian’s way. “Of course!”

“Really?” Damian asked, shocked.

“Yeah!” Dick put on his helmet and swung his leg over the vehicle. “When you have a license.”

Damian got onto his spot at the back, grumbling. “Damn you, Grayson.”

* * *

 

When they got back to Wayne Manor, Dick walked Damian up to his room. Normally, Damian would have complained that he was being treated like a child, but tonight he kept silent. He didn’t want to take the chance that Dick would actually listen to his griping and leave him to walk back to his room alone. Not when the shadows were still moving around in his imagination, pulling him back to the night before. Not when passing by Tim’s darkened door made his heart pick up despite his best efforts to rationalize away the adrenaline.

He knew there was nothing lurking in the dim, creaking halls.

He knew that Tim posed no threat.

And, when they finally got to his room and Dick left him in the doorframe, he knew that there was nothing to fear in the shadowy corners on the far side of the room, or the fluttering curtains or the looming bookshelf.

But he kept the light on anyway.

He pulled a book from his nightstand - one that Maps had lent him - and settled in for a long night of not sleeping.

Because, at the moment, he would take any amount of sleep loss if it meant not being trapped in his own mind for an entire night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took me so long!! ive been working on a submission to scifi romance quarterly for a while now, and that could involve money so it took the front seat for a bit. its nearly done though, so hopefully updates will start happening more frequently!  
> (also my midsummer new years resolution is to stop ending chapters with characters going to bed. if you catch me doing that anymore, i am giving you full permission right here right now to yell at me. flame me up like the comments section in my immortal my dudes just heckin do it i need to be stopped)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey kids just a warning that jason todd has a potty mouth and kills people! theres gonna be swears and death in this one but i promise u its not super graphic. the darkness level is maybe like.. 5% darker than the average modern comic and 5% less dark than the average 90s batman comic

Jason disconnected from the Batcave comm shortly after Dick showed up. As much as he would love to hear Tim get chewed out, he had one more lead he wanted to follow up before he turned in for the night. Well, he thought, more like the morning at this point. Not like his landlady would care when he was coming back, though. It didn't really matter how long this next bit took.

There had been a trafficking crate at the docks, two nights back, that he hadn't had time to empty before the traffickers came back. Though it was tempting to simply shoot them all and free the prisoners, he'd stopped himself. Terrible as it felt, he left the docks without having freed or shot anyone.

But he did leave a tracker on the crate, and a silent promise that he wouldn't let a damn thing happen to those people.

Two days later, a couple minutes before he hung up on Tim, the tracker had started moving. Now, racing down the city streets at breakneck speed, Jason watched the map as the tracker’s little red dot crossed the bay and entered the old block of warehouses on the East side before finally stopping. Ten minutes later, he was on the East side too.

Jason parked his motorcycle one warehouse away. Sadly, he didn't have any of the fancy schmancy bat-doodads he used to when he was Robin. Just a couple guns, a mask, and his own two feet. So he walked the rest of the way to the warehouse. It would've been nice to go by rooftop, but when was life ever nice? Nah, he had a shit hand, but he would be damned if he didn't play it as best he could.

He walked up to the waterfront, keeping to the darkness. It wasn't hard, considering that, aside from the well-lit warehouse he was heading for, the lighting in the area was dim at best and nonexistent at worst. Thank god for night vision lenses. As soon as the entrance was in sight, he crouched down and watched.

The first thing he realized was that he was grossly outnumbered. There were about ten thugs - at least three of them armed - and another boat speeding across the bay right towards them. Clearly, the classic shoot first, ask later maneuver wasn’t the best bet here.

His other favorite, watching from the rafters, was a no-go as well. The only way up that he could see was a ladder leaning against the inside wall of the building. He would have to run unseen all the way across the entrance to get to it, which was not going to happen.

That left his only other plan. He didn't relish the idea of it, but it was all he could think of.

When the other boat finally began docking next to the one Jason had tracked, he removed his helmet, along with the domino mask underneath. The fuzzy green of the night vision dissolved into darkness as soon as the lenses left his eyes. He set the helmet gingerly down on the cold, wet cement before creeping towards the incoming ship. It was a bit nerve-wracking going in without his helmet. He didn't really care about anyone seeing his face - after all, he wasn't someone recognizable like Dick or Bruce. He was just some average guy on the street, not one of the Wayne orphan flock that plastered the cover of every tabloid in every drugstore; not anymore anyways. What worried him, though, was the vulnerability. Jason wasn't one to call for help, but the option was nice if he ever needed it. And he wouldn’t stick his nose up at some skull protection if people started shooting bullets his way.

But he was sneaking in, and he couldn't very well do that while looking like the same guy that had been messing up these people’s shipments for the past few weeks. That would be, to put it delicately, really fucking stupid.

He skirted around the pools of light surrounding the warehouse entrance until he was up against the docking boat. When a ramp extended from on board and, two by two, men started to carry long wooden boxes down to the dock, Jason fell in next to them, taking up the rear. With any luck, this group wouldn't notice he was there, and the other group would assume he was with them.

The boxes passed by fine, waved through without a second thought. Maybe he should've found a way to help carry one, because when he got up to the entrance, he was stopped.

“You look familiar.” The man squinted at him, and Jason was hit with a wave of recognition. This guy was from a week ago; he'd managed to knock Jason’s helmet off during a fight, then had the gall not to die when he was shot. He was still favoring his left side, Jason noted with satisfaction.

His first instinct, of course, was to finish the job. But that would have been unhelpful, so instead he smiled. Not too friendly, but hopefully without any murderous intent. “I was guarding another shipment a while back. You must be pretty good with faces to remember me.” His tone was respectfully impressed, which he’d noticed was always a good tone to take when buttering people up.

The guy’s chest puffed out a bit. “You could say that. What was your name again?”

“Gerald,” Jason said, tossing out the first name that came to mind. “But my friends call me Trigger.” Admittedly not his best cover name, but it would do. This was way more contact than he was comfortable with, especially with someone who’d seen his face. He held out his hand. “And you?”

The man extended his own hand and they shook. “Johnny. Good to meet you properly, Gerald.”

“You too, Johnny.” He nodded and walked past, trying not to go too fast. He wanted to check on the people as soon as he could, and he  _ certainly _ wanted as much distance between him and Johnny as possible. There was a small group gathering around the crate, and Jason made a beeline to it.

“What exactly are we doin’ here?” asked a guy in front of him, his face obscured by a hoodie.

“You never done this before?” asked another, his entire face covered in piercings.

Hoodie shook his head.

Piercings ran a hand over his bald head, rings almost catching on his nape piercing. “Some scientists or whatever want their gas tested. Some sorta weapon. I dunno, I don’t get paid to ask what we’re doin’. And as long as I get paid, I don't care.”

Hoodie chuckled. “True that.”

Cool. Mad scientists and gas. Which meant the trafficking rings he'd been busting for the past couple months were all feeding human test subjects into this operation. And, if those wooden boxes had what he thought they had in them, Jason was about to get a firsthand demonstration of the gas’ effects if he didn't do something real soon.

He sidled over to the four men opening up the boxes. Sure enough, there were canisters full of chartreuse gas, and even a couple syringes whose contents glowed a sickly fluorescent green. “This what we’re using on those poor bastards in the crate?” he asked, nodding towards the boxes.

The men turned around. One looked him up and down with that same suspicion Johnny had. “Who the hell are you?”

“Gerald,” Jason responded. “Johnny knows me.”  _ Please don't actually check with him, _ he silently pleaded.

Another moment of inspection, then a nod. “Yeah, this is the new batch.”

“What is this stuff anyways?” Jason leaned forward, careful not to touch. “Looks like that Scarecrow stuff.” It wasn't the shipment that got away from Dick the night before - Damian had described it after he helped stop the robbery earlier. This one was much more of a variety pack; but it could be connected to the lost shipment.

“How d’you know what Scarecrow’s gas looks like? You work for him or somethin’?”

Jason snorted. “I  _ wish _ I'd been working for him. Mighta saved me the trouble of getting gassed by the guy. That shit will fuck you up.”

“You can say that again. This stuff ain't Scarecrow gas, but it comes pretty close.” He jerked his head towards the people in the crate. “These guys are in for the night of their lives.”

Ooh, it would be so nice when he was finally able to start shooting these sickos. “Where's the boss then? You know, the guy who wants all these results?”

“The boss wants the whole process videotaped and sent to him.” He rolled his eyes. “I gotta run the tape to another location, dump it somewhere, blah blah blah. Fuckin’ rich pricks.”

Great. This just got a lot more difficult. Jason groaned, both in fake sympathy and in very real frustration. “That’s such a pain. Guys like that never like to get their hands dirty. Who do they think they are?” The real question was, would it be worth it to let these people get gassed so he could track the results back to the source? He'd already let them go once. Could he really justify doing it again? Especially since he had no idea what this stuff even did...

Another guy nodded. “It's not all bad. Vince here gets the short end of the stick, but the rest of us get to keep most of ‘em once the experiments are done.” The way he leered towards the people in the crate sent all kinds of  _ ick _ chills down Jason’s spine.

Well, that did it. He was definitely not leaving these people with this guy.

The four here had only two guns between them. He'd counted seven from the other ten men crowding around the crate. He would have to take care of these four quietly if he wanted any chance. but he didn't expect that to be a problem. Dick would probably accuse him of getting a big head, but Jason figured training under Batman and a veritable army of other specialists was more than enough to take down a room full of scumbags.

Probably.

His hands shot out to wrap around the gunmen’s necks, thumbs pressing into their windpipes. They didn't need to be dead yet; just quiet.

Before the other two could cry out, he jammed a fist into each of their throats, and they went down wheezing. Perfect. He kicked the guns away as quietly as he could.

A quick look back to the crows confirmed that nobody had heard. They were all still in their clump, pointing at the people and chatting amongst each other. Jason’s hands slid down to the pistols holstered at his hips. They had 10 bullets each, meaning he could theoretically miss half the shots he took.

Not that he would.

The first gunshot that echoed around the warehouse was accompanied by a gun-toter on the edge of the group dropping to the ground. Cries of alarm followed and Jason dropped three more in the confusion. The remaining three with guns finally got free of the chaos and pointed their weapons his way, but nobody shot.

_ Their loss, _ Jason thought. He got one more shot of his own in before something sharp and cold was jammed into his neck. He whirled around to see Vince, still clutching his crushed throat. Of course. They weren't shooting because someone was behind him. One of the syringes was missing from the box, and Jason could just glimpse some blurry plastic sticking out of his skin in the periphery of his vision. He reached back and yanked it out, letting the empty tube drop to the floor before unloading a bullet into Vince. Three would've been more satisfying, but it wouldn't pay to be extravagant at the moment. A bullet whizzed past his head and two more slammed into the bulletproof vest hidden under his jacket.

A cold sweat was popping up on his brow, and a strange taste was forming in his mouth, a mix of earthy chlorophyll and bitter plastic. Just his luck, getting some Crane-wannabe’s science fair project injected straight into his fucking bloodstream. If it were the regular Crane gas, he would only have a minute left, tops. With this stuff? Who knew.

His hands were already starting to shake, and he missed twice before he hit the next guy. What if this stuff was toxic? What if he was already as good as dead?

Three more bullets hit against the Kevlar, too close to his head for comfort. He missed another shot before taking out the remaining armed men. The final two had already picked up their friends’ dropped guns and continued to shoot at him.

This was a huge mistake.

Jason crouched down and grabbed one of the men at his feet, using him as a human shield while he caught his breath. His heart was hammering, much more than it should've been just from being shot a couple times. What was in the syringe? Was his heart going to explode? He'd heard of that happening, people getting so scared their hearts beat until they burst. He wasn't scared now, not in a fear gas way, but maybe this formula took longer. Maybe it just overstimulated the adrenals, created the biological illusion of fear. Maybe it would be better to just get shot than to figure out.

But then what would happen to the people in the crate?

The shooting had stopped, and the man in his arms began to struggle.

“Keep still, or I'll blow your brains out,” Jason growled, grateful at least his voice was staying steady.

The man stopped squirming. Jason tried to get his breathing under control, but it felt like his lungs were pitching and rolling in a stormy sea.

There were two more men with guns, slowly stalking towards him, not shooting for now. Of the four that had started next to him, one was dead, one was serving as a meat shield, and the other two were starting to recover.

Four to one.

Suddenly those odds didn't feel too great.

He took a shaky breath. Stood up. The sweat was making his grip on the gun - and the man - slip a little. “I'm walking out of here,” he announced, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “If anyone tries to stop me -” He put the gun against his human shield’s temple. “- this guy eats it. Capisce?”

The two men silently lowered their guns. Jason walked forward, the man in front shuffling awkwardly to keep pace. He kept thinking about what would happen if he stumbled. His legs certainly felt wobbly enough. Just one misstep and he would be wide open to a hail of bullets. At least this death would be quicker than his last one.

As he passed by the two men, one of them - Johnny - squinted at him. “Wait a minute. I know how I know you.” He raised his gun again. “You're that Red Hood guy.”

Well, shit.

The other guy raised his gun as well. “Hood, huh? There’s a whole load ‘a guys who'd pay for your head.”

Jason was sure there were. Hell, he could think of ten off the top of his head. And the bounty any one of them would pay far outweighed the life of the man shielding him.

Before either man could do something Jason would regret, he shot them. Thankfully, even his shaky hands couldn’t mess up a point blank shot. The man in his arm flinched, then relaxed when he realized it wasn't him that was full of lead. 

Behind him, the ones he'd choked out were getting back up, and with the way his shots had been missing, Jason didn't like his odds in a head-on shootout. It was time to go, and go fast. He loosed his grip on his now-useless human shield and sprinted the rest of the way, bullets whizzing past him just as he ducked around the corner.

He pounded into the darkness, scrabbling in the shadows for his hidden helmet and mask. The remaining traffickers were right behind him, calling to each other for flashlights. He fumbled with the mask, sweat-slicked hands shaking so hard it was a wonder he could even hold it correctly. As soon as he got his gear back on, he switched on night vision and hauled ass to his motorcycle.

“Nightwing!” he yelled into the comm, hoping against hope that Dick was still awake.

Thankfully, blessedly, his voice crackled into Jason’s ear a moment later. “Red?”

“Listen, I'm in a bad way. East docks, old warehouses. Fear gas. There's some people, and I couldn't get them out, and I got hit with some experimental shit, and -”

“I'm on my way. Turn off your disruptor so I can track you.”

Right. The disruptor. Why did he have it anyways? It just made it harder for people to come help him. God, he was shaking so hard. He had to take off his helmet to find the right panel to press, and it was taking too long, too long. He was still a couple yards away from his bike, and he could hear the men behind him. They were gaining even without flashlights. “Got it!” A silent red dot glowed in the top left of his display when he put the helmet back on, a reminder that he could be tracked by anyone connected to the Batcave. He'd never been happier to see it.

Moments later, he was on his bike and gunning it.

“Is that an engine I hear?” Dick asked. “Didn't you say you were gassed? Red, you know that's not safe.”

“It's even less safe being chased by guys with guns,” Jason muttered.

“Where should we meet? I'm five minutes away, and I can't have you driving around Gotham on fear gas. That's like the worst DUI ever.”

“Take care of the people first.” His eyes wouldn't stop moving, flitting to everything that was going more than five miles per hour. And since he was moving past everything at ninety, his eyes were fixing on  _ everything. _ Dick was right. He was gonna die if he kept this up. “I've got a safe house nearby. Just please make sure the people are okay.”

A pause. “...okay. But as soon as I'm done, I'm going to come get you. You need an antitoxin before it gets worse.”

Would an antitoxin even work on this? It wasn't real fear gas. What if he died before Dick got to him? What if he crashed on the way there and his body was too mangled to even be recognized?

_ Calm down, _ he told himself, for all the good it would do.

He took a deep breath. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow almost a solid year since the last update.. A+ 10/10 to me. to make up for it though, this one is almost as long as the first two chapters combined. you can pretend i did two updates instead of one!  
> (sorry if the quality is kinda bad. i got super excited and just started running with it, but its finals week and im tired and its not the best. ill probably make edits soon)


	4. Chapter 4

It was easier than Dick thought to clear up the last of Jason’s traffickers. He'd already done quite a number on them, and a quick call to Commissioner Gordon was all it took to get the rest of the thugs out of the way. As the sun was just starting to paint the dark clouds pink, a fleet of paramedics rolled up alongside Gordon’s men, handing out bright yellow shock blankets like candy. Dick managed to snatch a couple samples of the gas inside before the police started snooping around.

A detective walked up to him just as he came back out of the warehouse. His badge read ‘Garcia.’ “Thanks for the tip, Nightwing. Hopefully this clears up the missing persons list a bit.”

“That would be nice,” he agreed, looking out at the swarm of officers and detectives asking prisoners questions or approaching the scene of the crime. “You guys can handle this from here, right? I have to be somewhere soon.”

Detective Garcia gave him a bemused look. “Kinda weird for a mask to ask before disappearing on us. But yeah, we'll be fine.” He gave Dick a mock salute. “You're dismissed.”

Dick smiled. “Thank you, detective.” He walked back to his motorcycle and kicked it into gear, checking Jason’s location on the map. Thankfully, it looked like he was in a residential area, which meant Jason probably didn't crash on his way to the safe house. He'd sounded pretty rational on the phone for someone on fear gas, but this was a new strain; Dick had no idea what the effects were.

He waved a final goodbye to Garcia before speeding off into the labyrinthine depths of Crime Alley’s apartment blocks. He wasn't as familiar with Crime Alley as he was with the rest of Gotham, and he suspected if it weren't for the map loaded into his lenses, he would soon become hopelessly lost amongst all the twists, turns, and crumbling asphalt.

The tracker brought Dick to an alleyway that smelled just as much like piss and scared cat as the other alleys he'd been passing through. Jason’s bike was stashed behind a nearby dumpster, concealed by heaps of rancid trash bags. A little bit farther down, there was a dip in the pavement, and a staircase leading down. Dick headed down it, knocking on the door. “Jay? It's me.”

Silence.

He frowned. Hopefully Jason was alright; he would have to break down the door if he wasn't. Dick raised his fist to knock again, but suddenly there were scrabbling sounds at the door. A moment later, it opened and Jason’s face peeked out.

He looked awful. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils reduced to unsteady pinpricks that shot from place to place, never quite focusing. His breathing was ragged, and a sheen of sticky sweat coated his face.

And the smell. It wasn't alcohol, or anything else he would expect to smell from Jason. It was something rough and sour, like garlic. It clung to Jason's his skin and clouded every breath, and Dick felt a sting of adrenaline each time he breathed it in.

“Charming place you've got here,” he said, beckoning Jason outside. He took a couple steps, then nearly pitched himself into the ground. After that, Dick slung Jason’s arm around his shoulder and helped him walk the rest of the way. “So how are you feeling?”

Jason wobbled onto the back of the bike. “I think I'm gonna die.”

It was a disturbingly normal thing for Jason to joke about, but this time he sounded entirely serious. “Not on my watch, you won't. Hold on to me, okay?”

Arms wrapped around his waist, much shakier than Dick would've liked. His own hands were getting tremors too, adrenaline making his heart jump like it was trying to break into his throat. “So,” he said, revving the engine and pulling back out onto the street. “What happened?”

“I was following some traffickers - you took care of them, right?”

“Of course.”

Jason nodded. “I got in a bad situation. Let my guard down.” Jason’s face was so close that when they hit a turn, his forehead bumped into Dick’s neck. It felt feverish.

“How’d you get gassed?”

He felt Jason shake his head. “Wasn't gas. Shit was in a syringe, and it's in my blood now. Dick, I can  _ feel _ it, like… on my skin. All over me. I tried washing it off, but it just keeps coming back.”

“Just hold on, okay? We're gonna fix it.” He ignored the nagging doubt that they might not be  _ able _ to fix it, the thought emerging unbidden and unwanted like a swamp monster. Like Jason had said, though, this stuff was experimental. And Jason certainly wasn't hallucinating like he would with normal gas. Odds were, the antidote they had back at the cave would be useless.

_ Jason could die from this, _ his mind helpfully supplied.  _ We don't have an antidote, and we don't know what it does. _

He took another turn a bit too sharp, and the bike tipped precipitously. His already pounding heart thrilled in fear as they pulled back upright, and he couldn't help but check to make sure Jason was still seated behind him. He could feel his arms around him, of course, but a nagging worry had taken root in the back of his mind and it refused to go away until indulged.

By the time they pulled into the Batcave, the sky was making its way from gray to a light, watery blue, and Dick was shaking almost as hard as Jason. Something about that lingering smell was setting him on edge. Adrenaline throbbed through him with each heartbeat, and his head ached. His body was leaden from two - going on three - days of lost sleep, but his heart was pounding like he'd just chugged a liter of Mountain Dew. Was this what Tim felt like all the time? It was awful.

He led Jason to the computer chair, though as soon as he let go he realized how much he'd been using Jason's weight to balance himself. As he headed towards the vault where the antitoxin was kept, he had to lean on the walls and machinery where he could, and wobble forward on unsteady legs when he couldn't. It was slow going, and he kept worrying about what would happen if he fell. A broken bone here, a crushed hand there. There was a point where he was dead certain he would stumble, accidentally disrupt the giant penny, and be crushed.

But he got to the vault safely. Looking back, he could still see Jason slumped in the seat; he hadn't gone nearly as far as he felt he had. Before he could undo the locks, though, the elevator down from the living room dinged. Alfred strode out of the cramped elevator and glanced around, first at Jason, then Dick.

“I thought I saw you two on the monitors. Master Jason, it's been a while.” He nodded to Jason, and Jason managed a small head tilt back. He looked like he was withering in his seat, and honestly Dick could understand that feeling. “And Master Richard.” He fixed Dick with a stern look. “I assume there's a reason you’ve put the rest of the house to bed, yet refused to go to sleep yourself? And -” He sniffed the air before wrinkling his nose ever so slightly. “- a reason for why you both smell like bad eggs?”

“Fear gas,” Dick said, and he held up the box of antitoxins very very carefully - if he did it too quick, the syringes might crash to the floor, or stab him, and either way they would be wasted before they could ever get to Jason, who needed them the most. “Jason got hit with some new stuff. Like Damian.”

Alfred looked Jason over, then nodded towards Dick. “And you're sure you weren't hit as well? If you don't mind my saying so, you look absolutely awful.”

Dick waved him off, making his way back over to Jason. “It's just sleep loss.” It was still slow going - especially now that he had fragile syringes in his care - but the fact that Alfred was there made it feel a bit more doable.

Then he stumbled and his life flashed before his eyes. Strong, steady arms rushed forward to grab both him and the vaccines before either one hit the ground. “Master Richard,” Alfred said, steering him towards a nearby bench, only a few feet from Jason. “Gassed or not, you clearly need to stop running around.” He took the box of syringes and the weight of responsibility lifted from Dick’s shoulders. “I will take care of everything; you rest.”

He didn't need to be told twice. He laid back and closed his eyes. He intended for it to be only a minute or two, but soon he was forced to give in to three nights of lost sleep.

* * *

 

When Tim eased himself out of the elevator into the Batcave the next morning, he wasn't exactly expecting to find Jason in the medbay. Or Dick lying in the cot next to him. Or, for that matter, Alfred standing over both their unconscious forms in a gas mask and surgical gloves.

“What happened here? Are they okay?”

“Master Tim.” Alfred gave him a disappointed, but unsurprised, look. “I believe I specifically requested you stay in bed until your injuries have healed.” He walked forward anyways, handing a spare gas mask to Tim.

He put it on, ignoring Alfred’s gentle chastising. “Why are we wearing gas masks?” He gave the air an experimental sniff, but all he could catch was a sulfuric tang. He wrinkled his nose.

“That,” Alfred said, noticing the way Tim’s nose bunched up, “is why we’re wearing the masks.”

“What is it?” Tim asked. “Smells like rotten eggs to me. Did they fall in a dumpster or something?” That would explain the smell, but not the gas masks. Or why they were unconscious. Alfred didn’t seem overly concerned, but Tim still didn’t like being in the dark about this.

Alfred sighed. “If only it were just that. I assume you remember the fear gas that afflicted Master Damian a few nights back?” He gestured to Tim’s bruised rib, as if he would forget so easily. “It seems Masters Jason and Dick here have discovered another experimental strain.” He held up a vial. “I took the liberty of sampling some blood from them. I’ve looked it over myself, of course, and sent some over to Miss Gordon for extra analysis.”

Tim settled himself into a nearby seat. “Any idea what it does, then?”

“Indeed.” Alfred produced a sheaf of papers, each page filled with Alfred’s neat, precise print. “Miss Gordon and I have determined that its core effect is tied to the compound allyl methyl sulfide. The compound can last for up to a day once it has entered the bloodstream.”

“And the gas masks?” Tim reminded him.

Alfred gave him a put-upon look. “Yes, Master Timothy, I was getting to that. Allyl methyl sulfide is the same compound that makes garlic stick in one’s system long after it has worn out its welcome. At the moment, Masters Jason and Dick are oozing this experimental fear serum from their breath and skin, just as one would after eating garlic.” He held up his gloved hands. “Thus the masks and gloves.”

Tim’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ in understanding. “They’re contagious.”

“Afraid so.” Alfred nodded.

“So uh.” Tim leaned forward, looking closer at the two men on the beds. “Besides bad breath and gross garlic skin, what does this stuff do that’s so bad?” He paused, brow furrowing in concern. “...are they having nightmares right now?”

“They shouldn’t be, though I suppose it’s possible. As far as Miss Gordon and I can tell, the compound is tied to an unnaturally large dose of epinephrine. As long as the serum is in their blood, victims will experience a prolonged fight-or-flight response. Master Dick fell asleep - or, I suppose ‘passed out’ would be more accurate - before I could study the effects on his behavior. But from what I could tell from Master Jason, the extra epinephrine manifests itself in constant, worsening anxiety.” He looked regretfully over to Jason’s still form. “It became necessary to sedate him, for his own good. I don’t want to sound dramatic, but I was beginning to fear the constant stress might actually kill him.”

Tim didn’t like the sound of that. “Good thing it didn’t,” he murmured. Then, louder, “How much longer do you think it’ll last?”

Alfred pushed up his glove to glance at his watch. “It’s been about five hours since they got here. Master Dick had hoped the Crane antitoxin would help them, but it seems to have had no effect. It could wear off any time from this afternoon to early next morning.”

“So all we can do it wait,” Tim summed up.

A nod. “It does seem to be that way.”

“Do you have the chemical makeup of the compound?”

Alfred handed over the thin stack of papers, and Tim leafed through them before nodding and moving over to the Batcomputer.

“I’ll see if I can use this to find any leads,” he said, already sinking into the cushy chair. “I can keep watch over them; you get some rest, Alfred.”

“I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to go back to bedrest?” Alfred asked, the very picture of resignation even before Tim gave his answer.

“No, not really.”

“Very well.” Alfred walked over to the elevator. “I shall prepare some breakfast, then.”

Tim tore his eyes from the screen to shoot Alfred a concerned look. “Are you sure? You never seem to sleep, and -”

“Master Tim,” he interrupted. “I appreciate the concern, but I am sufficiently rested. The only thing currently troubling my sleep is your stubborn refusal to let yourself heal.”

“Oh.” Tim could feel the withering look burning into him, and the nugget of guilt it had managed to dredge up remained long after Alfred left. It wasn’t enough to get him back in bed, but it was certainly enough to dissuade him from pushing the envelope any further.

He entered the chemical makeup into the Batcomputer and settled in for a long day of searching through money trails and corporate spreadsheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to writing this chapter, i know more about the science of garlic breath than i ever thought i would? the things you learn for fanfiction..


End file.
